A Change of Fate
by Jen
Summary: Pre-Rent into Rent. Basically following a 'what-if' concept. After a very very long time, Chapter 6 is up.
1. It wasn't supposed to be this way

Okay,

**Okay, I've been getting strange ideas lately. This story will be an AU (Alternate Universe), which basically follows these questions: What if April hadn't died? What if she was found in time? Would Roger have still met Mimi? How do he and April deal with their new HIV status? Basically Rent through a different light. Will eventually involve all characters, including Angel, Joanne, and Mimi. Most likely will be lengthy, with each chapter written from a different character's eyes. Don't read if you don't like that sort of thing.  
  
Yep, that's what happens when I get bored and think about stuff . . . **  
  
  


_**A Change of Fate **_  
_(A working title)_  


_Chapter One:   
It wasn't supposed to be this way_

It was the only way.  
  
Eight hours ago she would have thought differently, but now all she did was stare at the razor in her hand. The edges caught the dim light of the bathroom and she swallowed hard.  
  
She had to do it.  
  
It was her fault.  
  
Okay, maybe that wasn't true. It could be Roger's fault. He could have gotten it first, passed it on to her   
  
She shook her head. It really didn't matter. She had it. That mattered.  
  
HIV.  
  
AIDS.  
  
The disease that killed. That plagued the gay community. She was straight.   
  
_You're an addict, April. For Christ's sake, you shoot up every night. Share needles. You and Roger, after he rounds more up from the Man and for a few hours it's all oblivion and life is fine _  
  
No, life wasn't fine. Not now.  
  
She did it once, at a party. A recommendation. It was after a gig of Roger's, a party filled with people Roger was familiar with. She had no idea where to look, to start, to fit in. She was 18 then, Roger was 22 and a lot of the people there were that age and older. She felt immature and insecure. It was moments like that that she regretted running from her crappy family life. One try. To loosen up.   
  
She saw Roger shoot up that night too. So, technically she started herself, but if she hadn't tried that night, she was almost positive that watching Roger would have gotten her started soon enough.   
  
She was so fucking stupid.   
  
She never was strong. She wasn't strong enough to stand up to a verbally abusive mother, and Roger, well she loved him, and well, she followed his lead. Trusted him.  
  
She turned over the razor again in her hands.  
  
Roger was out. She wasn't even sure where. Mark was out, either chasing after Maureen or filming. Benny was somewhere with Allison, the landlord's daughter and his long-time girlfriend, and Collins was out copying resumes and such.  
  
She would be dead by the time anyone found her.  
  
She got up and still clutching the razor, turned on the hot water. She had read somewhere that warm water drew the blood out faster. She hoped it would be fast, as fast as possible. Her hands shook. Any other day and she wouldn't be able to do it, never.   
  
But today . . .   
  
She hadn't been feeling well. Nothing new. In between fixes she usually felt a bit crappy, so she always choked it up to that. Roger didn't look phrased when she mentioned to him off hand that she wasn't feeling well. Mark noticed, but she knew he didn't know every aspect of her and Roger's night life; he was enthralled with Maureen, or so she thought. Sometimes it was hard to tell exactly what Mark knew. He hid his feelings very well. She wasn't sure if anyone else noticed.  
  
She went to the free clinic around the block. She couldn't hide the fact that she was an addict. She ignored the stares. She didn't balk at the blood test. She knew little about disease. About the possibilities.  
  
She got the results today.  
  
HIV.  
  
AIDS.  
  
Dying.  
  
The end.  
  
It had to be.   
  
Would Roger miss her? Would anyone miss her? What would her mother say when she found out? The woman that called her "a failure."  
  
She'd be right.  
  
She once had big plans. Go to college. Study teaching. Teach high school English and spend her days grading papers while she sipped coffee at Starbucks. Date, find a man. Marriage. Family.  
  
She fucked it all up. Left home to prove to her mother she could make it on her own, got involved with Roger and made decisions that changed her life. It wasn't Roger's fault. She made the choice. She could've said no. Could've have found a different way.   
  
She remembered the first time she met him. His hands in her hair, their eyes locking, and for one magic moment feeling a spark unlike anything she had ever felt. Perfect. Before she knew he was using, before she started using herself. If they could just frame that one second of time, it would be perfect.   
  
She was stalling. She had to do this before anyone came home.  
  
She picked up a piece of paper and a pen, and then dropped it. She eyed the tube of red lipstick on the sink. She didn't wear that particular shade, so she figured that it must be Maureen's. She unscrewed the cap and without thinking scribbled a message across the bathroom mirror in big long cursive strokes. Short. To the point.  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered aloud, not even sure if she was talking to Roger or not.  
  
She shut off the water. She climbed into the tub, not caring that she was still clothed. It wouldn't matter.  
  
She was surprised when the first cut didn't hurt. She shoved her wrist under the water and stared at the blood.   
  
It didn't hurt. The water was turning red. She was vaguely light headed. One more cut, and then she'd sink away, ending her life before AIDS could rob her of it.  
  
The door slammed.  
  
Shit.   
  
_Nomatteryoudiditnoonecanhelpyou.  
_  
_It'soverIt'soverIt'sover._  
  
"Anyone here?"  
  
Mark.  
  
She was growing more lightheaded with each passing second. God, she didn't want Mark to find her. He was the last person she wanted to find her. Him and his camera.  
  
Footsteps approached the door. He could've heard the water.   
  
It grew redder. Her first swipe was deep but not as deep as could be. Losing blood, but not fast enough . . .   
  
_You'redoneYou'redoneYou'redone._  
  
_Go away . . ._  
  
The door was ajar. She'd left it open ever so slightly. Her head swam as she heard the creak . . .  
  
"Shit!" A camera dropped to the floor.   
  
It's over.  
  
911 she heard vaguely. She let her eyes drift closed. Felt Mark grab her wrist, hold pressure, heard him on the phone.  
  
It's over.  
  
Blackness descended.   
  
-------  
  
"I'll find Roger. Oh god . . . I'll find him. Please help her."  
  
Her senses recognized Mark's voice, felt hands touch her, needles prick her.  
  
She knew.  
  
She was still alive.  
  
It wasn't supposed to be this way.  
  
No.

She had to succeed.  
  
The only way . . .   
  
There was no other way.


	2. Scattering the Pieces

Chapter Two:

_Chapter Two:  
Scattering the pieces_

  
The white walls stared back at him. The chair bit into his back. He shuffled his feet.  
  
Shit . . .   
  
How could she?   
  
He played with his hands. He had called the loft, left a message on the machine. He didn't know what to say. How could he know what to say?  
  
"I'm at the hospital . . ."  
  
The mess they'd all see in the bathroom.   
  
Why?  
  
Mark stared at the doors. He had no idea if she would be okay, but he knew that she wouldn't. Even if death wasn't there, she would be far from okay.   
  
Roger.  
  
I'm sorry.  
  
We've got AIDS.  
  
He swallowed.  
  
He had no idea where Roger was. Band practice, roaming the lower East side, looking for another fix . . .  
  
He knew. Fuck it, he knew.   
  
He did nothing.  
  
April had tried to kill herself, maybe succeeding, and he knew that she and Roger had been using. Knew Roger was using before April. Of course then, it was less frequent and he forced himself to not notice, although it was plain as day staring him in the face and easy to see even through a camera lens.   
  
The one time he did mention it taught him to ignore it even more.  
  
He and Roger were the only ones home. April was somewhere else, a friend's, somewhere. Roger blew up, slamming fists, grabbing Mark and shoving him against a wall, telling him never ever to mention what he did with his life again.  
  
He was high, Mark knew. Roger wasn't that violent. Not when he was off drugs, not drunk. Somewhat normal. Sure, he had a temper, but . . .  
  
Mark retreated back to his little corner, helpless, watching his best friend throw his life away. Watched April throw her life away.   
  
Was it only a year ago that they'd just met? That she was innocent, barely 18, and like they all were, running from her family life?   
  
It seemed so far away. So long ago.  
  
He wished someone else were here. That someone else had found her. If he had come home a couple of minutes later, it would have been different.  
  
God, Roger.   
  
How would he handle this?  
  
HIV wasn't a new thing to him, even to Roger. Collins was HIV positive; had been for a couple of years. But he took his AZT and seemed healthy. One look at him and you never knew. Collins wasn't giving up, and Mark admired that more than anything. His look at life was something to look up to.   
  
He knew with Roger it would be different. Looking at Collins, it was hard to believe that he'd die someday. Mark knew about HIV, read a lot about it after Collins had been diagnosed, but still, looking at him, it didn't seen real. No, not real. Not AIDS.  
  
Roger was already a mess. A wasted figure of a human being, drugs in control. HIV could eat him alive.  
  
Eat April alive.  
  
_It already has_, he told himself. _Look where you are._   
  
Right.   
  
Funny, how he always ended up in these situations. He wished Collins were here. Were there. He was the peacemaker. He'd know what to do.  
  
Yeah.  
  
He didn't know whether to try and locate April's family. She rarely talked about them. He'd only heard her mention them once, truly. Listening to Roger strum his guitar in the background, she once told Mark she was the middle child of upper middle class parents. A real disappoint and bother.   
  
He related to it, for her story sounded similar to his own, but April never revealed anything farther.   
  
"Mark!"  
  
A glance up saw Maureen, Collins. Both rushed toward him. Maureen reached out to him and he let himself be embraced. He wouldn't meet their eyes.  
  
"We heard the message," Collins said softly. "I ran into Maureen in the stairwell on my way out."  
  
"Yeah," Maureen echoed, and for a second, it seemed like she had nothing to say.   
  
Silence.  
  
"How is she?" Collins ventured the question. He broke his contact with Maureen.  
  
"I don't know." Deep breath. "Someone should find Roger . . ."  
  
Collins nodded. Maureen sat. Mark swallowed.  
  
"I - I should find him. Tell him, I guess."  
  
"Are you sure, honey?" Maureen asked, looking incredibly uncomfortable in the environment. Maureen was the type of person that was used to managing her own well being. She could care deeply for others, and could be incredibly sweet, two things Mark loved about her, but she tended to still waver toward her selfish ways. Times like these, though, she was at a loss. They all were.  
  
He wondered if they saw the message in the bathroom.   
  
He needed to find Roger.  
  
He got up and shook Maureen off, promising the two he'd be back soon. They said they'd wait. Wait for the doctor, word on April. Pray.  
  
He set out, ready to search all of New York.

He tried every place he could think of, including a confrontation with Roger and April's dealer. He couldn't remember where the band would be rehearsing today, or even if Roger would decide to go or not. He wondered the East village for a while, almost ready to give up

In the end, however, he stumbled upon Roger on accident, when he headed back to the loft to check the answering machine for information from Collins or Maureen. Found Roger in the loft, sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at the mirror, looking very much like he was in shock, frozen to his spot like a block of ice.  
  
Shit.   
  
_End of chapter two. _  
  
  
**Anyone like this idea? Worth continuing? Reviews are much appreciated.**


	3. It could be

Okay,

**Okay, finished Chapter 3 (it's kinda short). I apologize for the delay, but this past week I moved back to college and tackled my first week of classes. Good news is that I've got ethernet now and like to use writing as a break in-between reading my textbooks. I went back and added another paragraph in Chapter 2 (thanks linnell - I looked back and found that transition a bit fast myself). **

**I have actually written Chapter 4 as well, but am looking for a beta-reader, since I have just realized that I truly plan on tackling several points-of-view here (great writing exercise, I tell myself). If anyone would be interested in helping me out in both the grammer sense and the help-me-stay-true-to-character sense, drop me a line at **[][1]**JenR13@aol.com****. It would be very much appreciated. **

**In conclusion, I have also decided even writing third person Roger point of view is hard and envy those who write him so well. But I always liked a challenge. :) **

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Jonathan Larson. I am just taking them for a wild trip, after I will return them in (hopefully) one piece. :)**

_Chapter 3:  
It could be . . ._  


He'd gotten into another fight with the band. Seemed all they did was fight over this, that. Same old shit.   
  
He really didn't care much these days. Get high and forget about it. Everything was okay then.   
  
Sometimes he stopped and thought, "fuck."   
  
It wasn't often. April was part of his world; they enjoyed each other's company, and Mark was finally off his back thanks to his complete and utter infatuation with Maureen. He didn't care much for her, but hell, if it kept Mark from demanding explanations she could stay forever.   
  
He was being a shitty friend. He knew, deep down he guessed, but preferred not to think about it. Back to smack. April. The band.  
  
The band.  
  
Surprisingly he'd been coherent during the fight with the band; maybe that was his downfall. Lately he'd become so accustomed to functioning while high that he had forgotten how not to.   
  
He almost laughed at his realization as he fumbled with the rusted lock. A cigarette. He needed a cigarette. That would do for the moment.   
  
It was quiet. Not completely unusual for the time of day, but for some reason it felt eerie.   
  
_You're losing it, Davis. It's the fucking loft, for god's sake._ He lifted his trembling hand to his hair. Where was he?  
  
Oh yeah. Cigarette.   
  
He walked over to their kitchen "area." If he bothered to look down, he would have had warning. Been tipped off.   
  
If he looked down.  
  
Nope, needed matches. The kitchen held no matches. Why he went to the bathroom for matches was something he didn't think about.  
  
Water.   
  
The floor was wet. He noticed when his foot slid across the tiles, the sole of his shoe sending him three feet further than his original position.   
  
The bathtub was red.  
  
Water wasn't red.   
  
A quick turn to his right revealed more red. Smeared across the mirror. Formed words.   
  
Words.   
  
Two hit his brain. No matter how fucked up he was, the message was clear. Simple. His mind refused to understand.  
  
April. AIDS.   
  
The scream for a fix entered his mind, but instead he sat down. The water completely covered the floor. He sat in it. His hands trembled; he wanted to erase it from the mirror.   
  
Fuck.  
  
Where was April?   
  
He shook himself from the mirror to glance. Red tub. Filled with water.   
  
No April.   
  
What the fuck happened? Was happening? The message, the red, the water, the empty loft, the damn matches, the needle that could make jumbled things make sense in his top drawer . . .   
  
He ended up back at the mirror. The long cursive strokes.  
  
Roger.  
  
I'm sorry.   
  
The door slammed. Footsteps.   
  
He didn't turn. Didn't move. It was red, red everywhere. Red, just red, staining the water, the floor, his mind.  
  
"Roger."  
  
Nothing entered his mind. Maybe he heard Mark. He knew it was Mark. He was aware of his trembling hands, sweaty palms, the phone ringing in the background . . .   
  
"What did the doctor say?"  
  
_We've got AIDS._  
  
"And?"  
  
_I'm sorry._  
  
" . . . April . . ."  
  
Her name broke through his thoughts. He turned. Mark stood a few feet from the bathroom door, the phone stretched to its limit. Perfectly in Roger's view, as if he was afraid to let him out of his sight.   
  
April . . .   
  
"Roger?"   
  
The mirror. Was it true? Where was April? He wanted to form words, to run away from the mirror's message, but its haunting tale remained.   
  
It could be his fault.   
  
The thought entered his mind before he could even blink. He had been using longer than she had, despite what everyone thought. The idea of disease never really came into play. He hated doctors. Hated. Never went. All this time, he could be the carrier of bad news.  
  
It would be easy to blame it on April. Let everyone blame it on April.  
  
God, April . . .  
  
Was she?  
  
She couldn't . . .  
  
"She's at the hospital, Roger." He heard Mark. But he didn't turn. Instead, he stared. There was no feeling. Shock. Numb.  
  
No feeling.   
  
AIDS.   
  
April.  
  
Red.   
  
What happened? If he listened perhaps Mark could tell him. But listening wasn't top on his list at the moment. Staring.   
  
Thinking about the possibilities and the situation.  
  
It could be his fault.  


_End of Chapter Three._

**Like it? Hate it? Reviews appreciated. **

   [1]: mailto:JenR13@aol.com



	4. No idea

Yea! New Chapter! :) It's been a while, since I've updated, but real life and a bit a writer's block are to blame. I'm having some slight issues (that just become major problems) at college and I'm crossing my fingers that something happens to fix it before I blow up. But, in the meantime, I am writing again :). 

Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em. Still wish I did. 

Chapter Four:_  
No idea_

She was quiet for what was most likely the first time in her life. She wasn't sure how to handle it. Playing with her hair as she leaned back into the plastic chair, waiting . . .  
  
Maureen wasn't sure of her feelings toward the situation. She would admit that she and April didn't exactly "get along." It wasn't because she hated the girl; she didn't. April just seemed weak and that pissed her off. For whatever reason, she backed away from her, especially lately.   
  
She'd been the last to truly notice the drugs. In fact, if she hadn't overheard Mark and Collins talking about it one time, she most likely would have never known. She didn't pay attention to those things. She paid attention to her performances and to Mark and what she could get him to do. She once caught April staring at Mark and had immediately thrown a look in her direction. Yes, Mark was usually the jealous one and Maureen was the cheater, flirting with whatever cute guy came by. Still, she was very protective of Mark - he was hers.   
  
A doctor came, looking for Mark, and Collins stood up, answering for him. God knows where Mark was, off looking for Roger in every place he could think of. She stood back. She didn't do hospitals. They scared her, something she hadn't told anyone. Her mother died of cancer in one when she was eleven. It was a weak spot of hers. Only Mark knew about it.  
  
Which was why she didn't talk about it. Maureen has a weak spot? Yeah, right.   
  
Collins returned. She looked up. "Well?"   
  
"She's alive. The doctor said she lost a lot of blood. If Mark hadn't come home when he did . . ." He trailed off, not stating the obvious. "She'll be in a room soon. I'm going to try the loft, leave a message in case Mark goes there."  
  
He headed toward the pay phones and Maureen stood there, unsure how to proceed. She decided to head toward Collins and wait him out. The waiting room was crowded and she was being to feel a bit claustrophobic. She flipped her hair and waited.  
  
She felt so out of place.   
  
She hated that feeling.  
  
Maybe that's why she didn't like April. She felt uncomfortable around the girl and she didn't deal well with that feeling. She dominated, which was most likely why she with Mark. Yeah, he was her lapdog all right, a nice perk in any relationship, but she was completely comfortable around him. She could talk to him; he listened. She was close to beginning to convince herself to stop cheating and stay in a steady relationship - for even though Mark was easy to manipulate, he wasn't stupid. She'd hate to lose his friendship. She wasn't sure if she loved him completely (she knew he did - that made her guilty for cheating each time, though it didn't stop her), but she loved his friendship.  
  
Shit. This was not the place to analyze her relationship with Mark.   
  
"He found Roger." She turned at Collins' words.  
  
"He did?" Collins' tone told that it wasn't a good thing.  
  
"In the bathroom. He's out of it." Collins shook his head. "He won't come here."  
  
"Why not? His girlfriend is in the hospital." She was confused.   
  
"It's Roger, Maureen. Mark's trying. I should go and help. He shouldn't be there alone."   
  
Where did that leave her? Shit, Roger again. She and Roger could get along, sometimes quite well, but a lot of times they fought. He hated the way she treated Mark; she hated the way he just was, especially when she learned of his and April's drug problem. And Mark dropped everything to help his best friend, even if it meant canceling on her. She strongly disliked being second in Mark's life, and even though it was a rare occurrence, Roger was usually the reason.   
  
She was pissed and being a bitch. Two things she knew she did well. "What do we do about April?"  
  
Collins stopped. "She's going to the psych ward. It will probably be a while before any of us can see her."  
  
She looked at him. "She is going to be okay? The doctor said so, right?"  
  
He was silent. "Alive, yes. Okay is a different word."   
  
She'd never seen the message in the bathroom. She had literally run into Collins on his way out the door, so she hadn't even set foot in the loft. Instead, she followed him to the hospital, where they found Mark in the waiting room.   
  
She knew April was messed up. Perhaps she knew that from the beginning. Yes, she could be the last to get the message, but she was no ditz. She just had other things to worry about.   
  
Later, when she made it back to the loft, the first thing she noticed was that her lipstick was lying outside the bathroom door.  
  
She had no idea.

Short chapter, I know. I'm coming out of a looong writer's block. Chapter five is written and in the editing process and should be up very shortly. :)


	5. Connecting two Ends

It's been a while.  A long while.  Writer's block has been and is still plaguing this story.  But I'm posting.  For those who may still be following this story, hope you like as I try to not completely enter angst/melodrama world :).

**Chapter 5**

**Connecting two ends**

He stood outside the door, not wanting to go in.  He had no idea what to say.  

Why, his mind whispered and he sighed. Why was he here instead of Roger?  Mark had spent twelve straight hours trying to get Roger to respond.  Instead, he sat on the floor, next to the bathroom, looking down at his hands.  

Mark told him over and over again that April was alive.  

No response.

He didn't know what to do.

Collins showed up, Maureen at his heels.  Maureen freaked out when she actually saw the bathroom.  He believed that "holy shit" were her exact words.

Like that would help Roger any.  Maureen could sure ruin a moment sometimes.   Collins tried what he could to get through to Roger – hell, if anyone understood anything going through Roger's mind at all, it would be him – but nothing.  Instead, the phone rang.  The three off them stared at it, before Maureen finally inched forward and answered it.

It was the hospital.  April was awake.  Maureen tentatively handed the phone over to Mark, and he listened.  

She had looked for Roger when she woke up.  He knew it.  But the response he got instead surprised him.  

"She's asking to speak to Mark Cohen."

What?  Why on earth would April want to talk to him?

"Won't talk to anyone else."

What about Roger?  What about anyone else?  He didn't even know April that well.  Sure, she lived in the loft, but she rarely talked to anyone but Roger.  He couldn't dislike her; he didn't know her.  He only knew a few scattered pieces of her life and her personality – she never offered more, he never asked.  April was just another person he observed, filmed her along with everyone else, but never knew her like everyone else. 

He wished he had.  

He hung up the phone, relayed this new information to Collins and Maureen.  At the mention of April's name, Roger looked up.

"Want to come, Roger?"

Looked down again.

Sigh.

Which brought him to his current position.  Standing poised in front of April's hospital room, no knowing what to say or why he was there.  He could have stayed with Roger.  Truth was, he was worrying about him even at that moment, even with Collins and Maureen in the loft.  

He knocked on the doorframe before even looking in the room.

The rustle of blankets and he was staring at her.  She was pale, wrist bandaged, IV wires and such around.  Her eyes, ones he usually observed full of life, were empty.  Lost.

"Hi," was the only thing he could get out.  

"You came," was April's response.  He watched her gaze go to the door, as if she was expecting someone else to be there.  Silence.

"I tried to get him to come," Mark offered, standing in the middle of the room, uncomfortable, fidgeting with his fingers, wishing at least that he had his camera because then at least his hands would be occupied.  

"I don't want him here."  Her voice was soft, filled with exhaustion.   

Mark looked up.  "Why?"

He watched as she glanced down at his hands.  He immediately let his hands down at his sides, trying hard to be still.  

"Tell him not to come."  Another pause.  "I asked for you because I need you to tell him.  Tell him not to come, forget about me.  We're on the edge already.  He doesn't need to be here.  I've done enough."  Her voice died out and she closed her eyes, and for a minute he thought she'd fallen asleep.

"He'll listen to you.  He won't listen if I say it."

Mark was confused.  "April, why?"  No answer.  He tried something different. "He won't listen.  To me, to anyone."

April shook her head.  "That's where you're wrong, Mark.  He does listen to you."  A sigh.  "Besides, I fucked up.  I have to put this right."

Once again, he didn't know what to say.  April looked very much like she needed a hug, a hand on her shoulder, support of any kind.  And here he was standing less than five feet from her, and yet it felt like miles.  Roger needed to be there; he was good at this.  Mark knew nothing – had no place to start. 

"I can't."  

Another look.  "Please, Mark."

"I can try and get him to come here.  April this is between you and him – I can't, I mean, I don't –" He broke off and stared down at the floor.  Awkward didn't even begin to describe his current feelings.

"I'm sorry."  Mark looked at April, only to see her turned toward the window.  A few seconds passed until she turned back to him.  

"Give him this at least." She pushed a folded sheet of paper in his direction and shook her head.  "We don't really know each other, do we?" It was an abrupt change of subject and it caught him off-guard.

"No, not really," he admitted.  She fingered the edge of the white hospital sheets.

"I wish I could go back and change some things.  Talk to some people; say different words."

"I think we all do."  He took the letter, hoping at least its presence would get some kind of significant response from Roger.  He found it strange that she had simply folded it, almost inviting him to read its contents, yet, at the same time, trusting him not to.  He simply pocketed it, leaving it for Roger.  April had turned to the window again.  He took the hint and started to back out the door.

"Mark, where are you from?"

It startled him, for he was already halfway out the door when she spook.  He looked back at her and stared for a second before simply saying, "Scarsdale." 

A small smile crept on her face.  "I thought so.  I'm from New Jersey.  Montclair."

He was confused and it must have shown.  "Now we know a little more about each other.  At least I can say that."  Pause.  "Please make sure he gets tested."  She sounded unsure, sad, forlorn.  She sounded older than Mark had ever heard her sound before.  Would they all sound that way when this whole 'thing' was over?

"I will."  He felt if he walked out the door, he was helping cut the ribbon around April and Roger's relationship.  Since when were they on the rocks?  Since when did he become so entangled?  He was so confused; too much was happening.  He could barely concentrate on his own relationship – here he was, seeming to hold the ends together of another one.  Was he really that important of a person?  Or was he simply just there, as he always had been?  The reliable one.  The listener.  

Roger needed to get his ass to see her.   And he would make sure that would happen.  He'd shove Roger this way, get him tested, than try and push him and April in the direction of rehab, or something.  

Then, he guessed, he'd sort out his own pieces.  

If he recognized them by then.


	6. Vistors Only

Okay, I haven't written anything in awhile. A very very very long while. I don't even know if those who paid attention to this story are still around. But I found chapter six on my hard drive and am hoping it inspires me to finish this story - I hate reading left off WIPs and hate to think this will become one of them. 

Chapter Six  
Visitor Only  
  
Reversed positions. Mark had a spine and the first thing he'd responded to was Mark throwing a folded piece of paper at him and telling to him to get the fuck off the floor. He never realized Mark had it in him. Maureen even backed off.  
  
So he got up. So he let himself be shoved in a cab. He half listened to Mark and Collins argue over what he' should be doing – it all still seemed very far away. What the hell was he supposed to say to her?  
  
Sorry, April   
  
He was just as, if not more, fucked up as she was. And, to top things off, with all occurring around him, the only thing that came back to him was the memory of his grandmother. He visited her in the hospital before she died. Six years old, dragged by his oldest sister into a place he tried every which way to escape.   
  
His hands unconsciously shook at his side. It had been hours since his last fix and his body was well aware of it. Withdrawal. It was nasty stuff; friends went through it – he couldn't last through the night without anything.   
  
Shit. Everything was shit. He traced his own wrist and had a sudden anger towards April. She could have told him – they could have done it together, a pact. He'd have done it right. He wouldn't have failed.  
  
Where did that come from?  
  
Visiting hours didn't start for fifteen minutes when they got there. Collins went off for coffee and Mark watched him like a parent watching a toddler. He purposely walked a few feet away, his face buried in a pay phone. He wondered then if anyone had called April's parents. He considered it briefly, remembering the number from some far reach of his brain after admittedly looking through April's purse for her stash. Odd thing, the memory, remembering things he'd thought he never even bother with.   
  
The nurse came and got them. Mark begged off at the door, shoving him in before he could even try to fight back.  
  
And there she was, her brown eyes as shocked as his brain felt. He didn't say a word; he simply gazed. She turned. He stepped toward the bed, knowing that Mark was most likely outside the door, waiting for him to dart out.   
  
Roger, you don't- Her voice broke away. She was pale.  
  
He didn't know what to feel at that moment. Love, he thought – happiness she hadn't succeeded, shitted for what could and would lie ahead if either of them wanted a second chance. Instead, he didn't feel much of anything.  
  
He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled her close to comfort her. He didn't know what else to do. The passion, the spark – nothing. His hands trembled, and he knew hers did the same. She simply gazed into space.  
  
He knew.  
  
She knew.  
  
Knew something had changed. What? It could be a million things. For the better? Who knew. Was it huge?  
  
Yes.  
  
He simply stared at the wall and thought of nothing else but that one moment.  
  
There was no future.  



End file.
